The day before the days

before winter’s satin gloss,

driftwood glimpses neatly hide away in

a gathering pageantry.

Tightly tucked in folds

of ancient wind with pockets out-

turned, falls the Fall,

fallen…and begins a new tale.

Heaven’s sudden smile, casts

a long and shattering light

on the darkening days –

bringing the iron-gilded hope

of dawn’s new Dawn.

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Picture found here

Bequeathed to me are quill and quine,

a thousand hillsides’ worth.

No greater gesture could, for mine,

elicit thanks, henceforth.

So stiff the hand to wrench and grab

so stunted, feet, to trudge;

the weary eye’d think all life drab,

one’s paradisal grudge.

When hope is stirred, not wit or whim,

a fire, too, is stirred.

‘Tis then the soul her nurture finds,

ahunger’d less for food than word.

“Hope is the thing,” she said,

that one thing most real for one who looks.

Her lips, so full in Heaven’s unmeasured smile,

speak outward still to a land more rich for the kiss.

“He ate and drank the precious words,” she intones –

a wiser breath slicing through the caustic

din of monoxidic madness. Someone sees

what, in its dim appearing, shows itself bright.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,” we hear

her moan, the pained and paining alike her cast.

Though hell would be her suitor, more suited

to Heaven the language of this child.

Let us then lean into the dawning day, delight

our closest friend and, as she might urge us,

look East where all is birthing and good is free.

For “none can avoid this purple.”

Image found here

Many times and seasons pretend to sway our way,

and drop their hints of monotony – but fail.

Few are the banks of shuddered-down snow

on pathways already hidden from our feet.

Many are the pedals on wayward flowers

refusing a lesser share of their own song.

Few are the words ill-spoken from lips

more accustomed to smile or kiss.

Many the moving notes from the still page,

to still the ravaged breast will come.

Few, or none, the children, playground-found,

whose voices, loud and ardent, disappoint.

Many weary eyes are pointed upward where

hills, apart and distant, croon.

Few there be to quell the wish of

night-fallen star-gazers seeking.

And altogether, met and threaded down,

in aching stillness from the heart that John heard.

When the raw things sing, it sounds

like piano keys, struck and hammered

down into shapes of peaceful oblivion.

It hides like so much gold bullion, culled from

its darkened corners. The reverberant tones

refresh the song, renewed in its own

useless glow. But, only the fondest

things find place among the stars.

When the raw things sing, goodness comes

unfettered from the whipping posts, where

splinters of music protrude from the broad

skin of our places. Its volume grows

with each stroke of note and stem.

Lines, heavy with light, take space

among dreams and laughter of clouds.

I guess it only looks for seeing ears,

and the urge to sing.

Picture found here

Maybe if you just dust up

the linen places, warp of whim,

woof of faceless ignorance –

the spaces forgotten and forlorn –

this closet could breathe again

its four season’d air?

Maybe if the hanging things of dappled hue

were reminiscent of something more than

Draconian memory, stuck in reverse

but high-waying and fog-heavy?

Maybe if those picture frames were big

enough to house more than a single

face? Now, they just huddle in face-

less corners, waiting for the life-

giving noose.

Maybe if the epaulets on those padded,

big-girl shoulders were strong

enough to bear more than their own

weight? At least that’s what the closet

partners say. Instead, those renegade

fabric funsters greedily march the other

way while mold builds, where moth lives and rusty

hinges of busy-body clocks got

too pushy.

Maybe if you let the clocks forget

the time they’d have more company?

Maybe you just need a better broom?

Picture found here

A band plays while geese sachet

across a sodden lawn forget-

ful of their own ridiculous demean-

or. Such raucous creatures so divinely

inspired to annoy. Though, there is a care-

free story in anything mind-

less enough to shit 

while walking with friends.

Perhaps they know something we do not.

Image found here